Posted in bog gardens, floods, Ireland, night, Permaculture, ponds, water

Fertile Edges of the Imagination

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The day is ending and night is closing in.

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Floods have swollen the rivers, causing aquifers to burst out across the land.

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Everywhere is sodden.

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I put on my wellies to walk the gardens, eager to see the mighty force of water sweeping through the pond.

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I step in squelching earth underfoot as the last blackbirds sing out their territorial salute to the day as it passes into the west.

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With the pond weed all but cleared, the last vestiges of a winter’s day linger on the surface of the water.

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Droplets of rain cling to twigs and ivy in the still of the evening air.

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Lichens, sodden with rain, flop across the horizontal branches of the Goat Willow.

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The otherworldliness of the Fairy Wood beckons as  the birdsong ends and silence descends.

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I make haste up the gentle hill towards the cottage and the warmth of home.

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Once indoors, I sit for a few precious minutes in the fading light, blissfully soaking up the silence.

Day, evening and night merge seamlessly at dusk, fertile edges of the imagination.